


Chemistry and Cakes

by flecksofpoppy



Series: Poppy's Adventures in Night Ficcing [29]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baking, Cooking Lessons, M/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7757071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Baking is all about chemistry.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chemistry and Cakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shingekinoboyfriends](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shingekinoboyfriends/gifts).



> I asked for prompts! Thank you! _jearmin au where armin and jean both take a class at the local community center (yoga?? art?? cooking?? something else?? you pick) and jean has a big crush on the star student (armin)_

“Baking is all about chemistry.”

Jean frowns mildly, trying not to roll his eyes as he slides his baking tray into one of the ovens in the classroom.

“Then you should be really good at it,” he replies mechanically, “since science is your thing.”

That earns a mild frown in return that Jean can almost feel burn into his back—those blue eyes that have studied him curiously from the moment he walked through the door, cursing under his breath since his car battery had died in the parking lot. 

Although there isn’t a response as the other oven opens and shut, Jean feels a little satisfaction.

Armin Arlert is hard to ruffle. He’s also the star pupil of this rinky-dink community college cooking class (Jean’s descriptor) and has some background in science he keeps a secret.

Of course, Jean would never be caught dead calling the class “rinky-dink” since the woman teaching it is a friend of his mother’s, but he likes to at least pretend he has something better to do than take a class in a subject he’s not very good at.

He grew up with his mother baking, cooking, even experimenting with different types of recipes, but he’s never been good at it—not at the chemistry of baking, or even the instinct of cooking.

The teacher says he has an aptitude for the latter, but he refuses to touch a skillet after one day in Home Ec, he accidentally lit his best friend’s head on fire by using too much oil.

It didn’t end well, and it took Marco’s hair about six months to grow back on the right side after some mild burning.

Jean isn’t one for guilt generally, but the fact he didn’t know what he was doing and he actually caused legitimate _harm_ to someone he cared about spooked him.

But after graduating high school, spending a couple years working at the local gas station as a cashier, and playing way too much World of Warcraft, he decided to strike out on his own and go somewhere else.

He moved to a city, and failed miserably; the world is a lot harder, and much larger, than Jean first realized.

And now he’s back in Trost, stuck at his mother’s house as he looks for a job. The summer cooking class had come up unexpectedly, and he didn’t have much choice when his mother had “suggested” it as something to do. 

“Baking isn’t just about chemistry,” comes a cheerful voice. “It’s also about love.”

Jean fights the groan that forms in his throat. This is the same type of woman who has a “Live, Love, Laugh” sign in her kitchen, most likely in whimsical lettering. She’s not a bad person, but she’s also annoyingly cheerful and cliché, and it irritates him.

But then, he has to fight a little smile as Armin replies pleasantly, “Not if you put the wrong ingredients in at the wrong temperature. Baking is more objective than that.”

Jean’s lips quirk, and he finds Armin looking at him again; this time, there’s a little smile in response.

They have a weird rivalry, since it’s really just the two of them under the age of the Continuing Education 50+ crowd, but also a certain type of mutual respect.

Also, a mutual type of curiosity.

Armin’s cake comes out perfect, as expected; Jean’s cake won’t come out of the pan at all, and then disintegrates into pieces even after being placed on the cooling rack.

“I’m not good at exact measurements,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes and eyeing Armin’s perfect cake resentfully. “I’m not a _scientist_.”

“I’m not a scientist either,” Armin replies easily as he sticks a toothpick into the center of the loaf to check it’s not gooey. “At least not in title.”

“I think you only get a title if you’re a rocket scientist.”

“Or an organic chemist,” Armin replies curtly, nodding at his cake. “I don’t have one.”

Jean isn’t sure what to think about that, except to blink awkwardly; Armin has never actually divulged that much information about himself for the last four weeks they’ve been in this class.

“Well,” comes a sympathetic voice that makes Jean jump, “nice attempt, Jean. It looks as thought you put a lot of love into this creation.”

The teacher is standing behind him, patting his shoulder, as she eyes his crumbled cake loaf.

“I suck at this,” he retorts with a shrug, but he feels a little embarrassed now, knowing the rumors about Armin being an actual, legitimate scientist (albeit, one who’s no longer in school and has no degree) are true.

To his surprise, though, Armin reaches out to take one of the chunks of cake and pop it into his mouth. 

He gives a cheerful smile. “It may not look like much, but it’s really good.”

Jean can’t bring himself to resent the words, because although Armin may be good at everything and most things seemingly come easy to him, he’s also not a liar.

“Really?” Jean squeaks, and then clears his throat awkwardly, shifting his hips and immediately falling into a familiar, smarmy posture. “Because I think I fucked it up pretty badly.”

“Jean! We don’t use that type of language in this class.” There’s a soft sigh and disapproving hum, and Jean cringes. It reminds him of being a teenager, and he can already hear the unspoken words: _your mother would be very disappointed._

“You did fuck it up,” Armin replies placidly, causing several gasps from other members of the class, since a curse coming from _Armin’s_ mouth is worse than Mother Theresa denouncing god. “But it still tastes good.”

“Yeah, well…” Jean retorts, looking for something snarky to say.

He fails.

“Thanks.”

Armin smiles pleasantly at him.

* * *

“Wow, this is delicious!”

“How much oil did you use?”

“Wait, how did you _do_ that?”

Jean is preening, feeling talented and special as his cooking skills are praised and regaled. His fellow classmates are practically moaning with the results of their latest lesson, and Jean’s attempts are appreciated more than anyone else’s.

But amidst the ten people digging in, singing his praises, there’s one opinion he really wants to hear.

Armin eats like a bird, glancing his fork across entrees like a ballet dancer across the floor, and Jean tries not to let on how closely he’s watching as his rival—now friend, as of a few weeks ago—takes a bite.

He holds his breath, wondering what the verdict will be.

A few days after the baking incident, after class, Armin had come up to him and asked if he wanted to hang out—maybe watch a few movies together, shoot the shit.

Jean had acted like he wasn’t sure, but of course, acquiesced almost immediately. At this point, he was short on friends.

Armin bribed him with cake; Jean later ended up cooking for him a few days later, late at night, after watching an entire season of a show they both hadn’t seen in one sitting.

It was ramen, boiled in a pan; not exactly the type of impression that Jean was hoping to make, if any impression.

But now, he wants to make a good impression.

“Wow,” Armin finally says—to himself, if anything—as he swallows the first bite of Jean’s classroom concoction, “that’s—”

“Cooking isn’t about love,” comes a cheerful voice, “but about instinct, virility, an ability to please.”

Jean meets Armin’s eyes then, and they just stare; then, they both dissolve into facial spasms as they try not to laugh, and Armin ducks his head, digging into the meal, shoulders shaking as he tries not to reveal his hysterics.

“Virility,” Jean mouths to Armin, an hour later just as class is about to end, giving a shit eating grin.

To his surprise, Armin blushes.

* * *

Armin’s intimidating in his opinions and assessments, intense and calculating in his stares, and insightful and even funny when he wants to be.

But his hair is soft.

Jean knows this, because a few months after the class was over, they’d ended up tumbling into bed together—a wild tangle of limbs and panting and names.

Armin’s hair is still soft—even now, after he’s returned to school, and they haven’t seen each other in months—and there are kisses at Jean's jaw, murmurs of how much he was missed.

“You gonna bake me a cake?” Jean asks breathlessly, back arching as there’s a firm kiss to his hip through his underwear.

“Only if,” Armin breathes, obviously distracted as he slowly pulls down Jean’s boxers, “you want that kind of lesson.”

Jean moans, arching his back, losing any words he might have had as he reaches down to twine his fingers in Armin’s hair.

“No,” he grunts, “this is good.”

There’s a slight laugh; but then, Armin look ups suddenly, and Jean can feel the stare. He opens his eyes, and Armin smiles a little. “Will you cook for me later?”

Jean blushes, averting his eyes. “Yeah,” he replies quietly.

Later, he learns that love cannot be quantified—not through instinct or step-by-step chemistry—but that it is found in the curve of Armin’s mouth, his lips when smiling or frowning or speaking.

Taste—the outcome—is far more important than any accurate recipe.


End file.
